


Hunk of the Year

by aimmyarrowshigh, colazitron



Category: Stereo Kicks (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, Barclay thinks, who needs to be a hunk when he could just be <i>Tom</i>'s for a year?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunk of the Year

Barclay's rather proud of the little nest he's rigged up to sit in and play guitar for a bit. It's very comfortable, and there's an interesting feather on the windowsill just at his eyeline. He takes a photo of it to instagram later, and is about to strap on his guitar when the door opens and Tom's feet appear.

Barclay follows the line of them up past the knobbles of Tom's thin ankles to his tan calves and little knees and rather nice thighs, really, until he gets to Tom's face. And his absolutely shit-eating grin.

"Guess who's nominated for 'Hunk of the Year,'" Tom sing-songs. He stalks towards Barclay and sets his hands on his hips like Peter Pan.

"You?" Barclay guesses. He reaches out and wraps his hands around Tom's waist to pull him down into his lap. He's better than a guitar, even if Tom rarely appreciates things like interesting feathers or double-yolks in an egg or rocks shaped like little dicks.

Tom laughs. "Ha! I don't need a nomination; I'm the hunk of every year." He pokes Barclay's belly. "No, it's _you_."

"Have you been?" Barclay asks, because all he can tell by the grin on Tom's face is that one way or another, it amuses Tom immensely. There's probably a good bout of ribbing whoever it is forthcoming. Not that Barclay minds. He kind of loves listening to Tom blabber on and on. Even if his jokes come at Barclay's expense. Or Tom's own.

That's probably why he gets away with it, really. He doesn't take himself too seriously either.

"Nah." Tom shrugs. "Just you. Out of us eight, I mean. Obviously there are other people nominated or it wouldn't be much of a competition."

Barclay grins a grin to rival Tom's.

"Is it a competition though? Is it really?"

Tom pulls back enough to give Barclay a long leer up-and-down. "I don't know. You are up against James The Vamps. I hear his quiff's much bigger'n yours."

Barclay barks a laugh and puts the guitar safely out of harms way. That leer sort of makes him do these things without thinking about them.

"It's not about size, you know. It's what you can do with it," he says.

"Damn straight," says Tom, who is the shortest man in the world.

"You have to say that," Barclay says, petting at Tom's hair. "You've not got much at all, in the way of quiff."

Tom looks a little stormy. "See if I vote for you now."

"Aw," Barclay coos. "You think I'm hunkier than James The Vamps?"

Tom straddles a little more firmly over Barclay's lap and looks him over again. "Well. This shirt's not hunky. That's got to go."

"What's wrong with this shirt?" Barclay asks, brows furrowed. He quite likes this shirt actually. It brings out his eyes, supposedly.

"Well, for one, what's underneath is _much_ hunkier," Tom says, pushing his little fingers up underneath it to trace widening circles around Barclay's bellybutton.

Barclay snorts, but he's game. He tugs the shirt off in one move behind his neck, staring right into Tom's eyes. "Better? One vote?"

Tom hums consideringly, letting his gaze travel over Barclay's skin slowly. Barclay would be lying if he said it didn't kickstart butterflies in his stomach.

Tom hums consideringly and then brings up a hand to pass a gentle thumb over one of Barclay's nipples. Barclay doesn't gasp at it like he would a few weeks ago, but his abs jump with the sensation anyway.

Tom grins.

"One vote for that."

Barclay searches Tom's face with his eyes. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "What can I do to earn more votes?"

Tom raises an intrigued eyebrow, a smírk still sitting on his lips.

"Take something else off."

Barclay shifts his hips. "You're gonna have to budge up then, love, 'cause all I've left is my joggers."

"No pants?" Tom asks, lifting up from his perch on Barclay's lap, but then kneeling there. Barclay would be surprised if he didn't already know that Tom likes being difficult.

Barclay shrugs and starts to slowly, slowly roll down the waist of his sweatpants. Tom does like Barclay's v-line. "Didn't think I needed them, really."

"Oh? Were you expecting someone?"

Barclay wasn't, but he's happy to lie about it if it'll make Tom feel special. He likes the way his nose wrinkles up when he's delighted. "I was hoping."

Tom's nose wrinkles a bit with his smile. Barclay's own smile back is probably a lot more beaming than that.

"Flatterer," Tom murmurs, tracing his hand down from Barclay's hips along his v-line, watching the path it takes intently.

He hasn't actually moved out of Barclay's lap quite enough to make getting the rest of the joggers down _easy_ , but Barclay manages, for the most part at least. He probably doesn't need his ankles to be unrestrained for this, anyway.

"Hm, yes," Tom says, scratching his fingers through the hair at the top of Barclay's crotch. "That'll get you another vote."

"Glad to hear it." Barclay's voice has gone an octave lower without his permission. "Bein' the hunky one's all I've got."

Tom's eyes snap back up to look him sternly in the face at that. He tugs at the hair beneath his fingers not-exactly-gently. "Don't say that."

"Ouch!" Barclay frowns. "Alright, alright. Do I still get to keep those two votes?"

"Dunno. Might need a bit of persuading," Tom says, leaning in closer and looking down at Barclay's lips.

Barclay presses his lips to the soft space of Tom's neck just below the jut of his Adam's apple. He sucks just enough to make Tom moan, but not enough to make a mark -- not somewhere audiences are likely to see.

Tom's hands come up to rest at the junction of Barclay's neck and shoulders.

"Okay, yes, that's..." Tom says, voice a little breathier. "Persuasive."

The tip of Barclay's tongue traces a thumping vein in Tom's neck and Barclay has to dampen his smile when the pulse beats faster.

Tom likes so much to be on top of everything and it's nice to know sometimes there are things that just happen to him the way they happen to everyone. Like that stuttery sigh that falls from his lips when Barclay sucks a little harder. Just once. Just so that Tom is reminded there are things that could come from this, even if they won't.

Barclay's teeth scrape lightly over Tom's earlobe. "Did I get my votes back?"

"Huh?" Tom says, fingers twitching on Barclay's skin. "Oh, yeah. Yeah."

Tom presses his palms against Barclay's shoulders and pulls back enough to regain his composure a bit. "But that's still only a few. I need to see a bit more to really gauge whether you're _that_ hunky."

Barclay grins and feels a little laugh bubble in his throat. He should have known, probably, that Tom was likely to have some sort of plan.

"Yeah? How are you going to go about that?"

Tom scoots off Barclay's lap and gestures with with the lazy imperiousness of a king. Or Simon Cowell at Arena Auditions. "Show me what you've got."

Barclay looks down at his naked body and then back up at Tom.

"It's kind of all ... on show?"

Tom raises an eyebrow. "Slumping over sitting like that's a show now?"

Oh. Well, what kind of show can Barclay put on, though? Does Tom want him to flex? To lie down on the bed and ask him to draw him like one of his French girls?

He straightens up anyway, straightens his shoulders and keeps his chin level, so he can look at Tom more directly. Slowly raises one eyebrow and feels incredibly ridiculous.

"Any specific requests?"

Tom's eyes start to crinkle at the corners and his nose scrunches up and the grin on his face is, in every way, that of the malevolent terrible lovely pixie that Tom is. "Dunno. Surprise me. Get up and strut your stuff."

With a good-natured eyeroll and a slightly self-conscious smile Barclay gets up from the bed. The thing he does for this boy, honestly...

But the thing is, he knows no matter how terrible he does at this, Tom won't ever be malicious. So it's easy to give his bum a little shake and Tom a wink over his shoulder.

Tom looks -- well, he looks like he's in love, and Barclay's not sure how to think about that. So instead he pulls a Zoolander face and turns on his heel to runway-walk back towards Tom. He kisses his biceps, just to make Tom jealous.

When he reaches Tom again, Tom rises onto his knees and smooths his hands over the soft skin at the sides of Barclay's hips.

"You've got that strut down pat, don't you?" he teases, but there's still that sweetness in his eyes and he leans in to press a kiss to Barclay's hip. Apparently, the secret to a runway strut is to completely over-do it.

"Well, I do really want that 'hunk of the minute' title."

"Year, love," Tom corrects. He kisses low on Barclay's belly and Barclay inhales sharply. "Hunk of the _year_."

"Same difference," Barclay says, thighs tensing when Tom runs his hands down them slowly, like he's feeling out the way the muscle underneath it pulls taut.

It tickles along the back of Barclay's knees. He can't help hopping onto his toes, squeaking a little. 

Tom laughs, eyes soft.

"Very hunky," he says, but kisses a long the line of his hips and runs his hands back up into less ticklish territory. He's taken his time with Barclay's body before, but this time it feels so... deliberate.

Barclay shivers as Tom starts to kiss a path across the top of his thigh, closer and closer to where his cock's beginning to ache a little with waiting.

And then Tom pulls back, hands back up on Barclay's hips. His eyes have gone a few shades darker when he looks up at him.

"Lie down for me?"

Barclay's got a bottom bunk, and he's glad of it whenever he and Tom can find a minute alone. Chris may step on Barclay's fingers every morning when he climbs down the ladder, but it creaks a lot less to fuck down here than on Tom's top bunk.

"Are you ever going to take your clothes off?" Barclay asks as he lies back against the pillow, once again very aware of how he fills out the bunk bed. There's really not room for two people here, but that's never stopped them before.

"In due time," Tom says. "I'm not the hunk of the year here."

Barclay slides his hand under Tom's shirt to rest against his side. "Doesn't mean it's a chore to look at you."

"Alright, alright, sheesh," Tom says and pulls his shirt off without any kind of level of finesse.

"I want this to be about you though, yeah?" Tom says then when he shuffles closer, kneeling over Barclay and tracing his hands along his arms.

Barclay feels his face flush and hopes that the spray tan covers it up. "Just because of the 'hunk' thing?"

Tom does a little shoulder wiggle kind of like a shrug. "More like a 'you' thing."

Barclay bites his lip to hide the size of his smile. It's the only thing he can hide from Tom like this, spread out naked under him on the bed. It's the only thing he wants to hide.

Tom either really doesn't see or chooses to ignore it, as he leans down to kiss a line from the base of his throat down along his breastbone, hands still grabbing at Barclay's arms.

He hums like he's the one getting something out of it when he tongues over Barclay's nipple again.

Barclay feels the shiver go all through his body, the flush in his cheeks deepening.

Tom looks up at him and strokes a finger over Barclay's cheekbone.

"Gorgeous," he says.

So much for the spray tan, then.

Barclay has to laugh when Tom kisses all along the inside of his arm, just because it tickles up high near his armpit and then because it takes so long for Tom to kiss all the way along his bicep and elbow. The peek of Tom's pink tongue over Barclay's black tattoo -- _Taking Care of Business_ \-- stirs up a boil of possessive, needy heat in Barclay's chest.

"Love how big your hands are," Tom mutters, lifting one. He kisses the palm softly and then each of Barclay's fingers in turn before sucking down on two, suggestive and hot and dirty.

Barclay's breath hitches in time with the hot pulse of arousal in his groin, staring at the way Tom hollows his cheeks. It's probably at least a little deliberate but he's certainly not complaining about it. There's a shiny trail of spit smeared on Tom's cheek from one of Barclay's fingers when Tom lets them go to run his tongue over the sensitive webbing between them.

Tom sucks his way off and kisses Barclay's fingertips again. Even his pale eyes are dark in this light.

"Is that what gets me 'hunk of the year' then? My hands?" Barclay asks, voice a little tight with arousal. Tom grins.

"'m sure these help too," he says, spreading one hand over Barclay's abs and then ducking down to set his lips to them.

Barclay's head drops to the pillow. He can't even watch Tom kiss his way down to his cock, not when he's this keyed up. It'd be over before they've even really begun.

Tom makes a happy little humming sound, lips getting ever closer to the base of Barclay's cock. Barclay half expects him to bypass it all together and continue on his little teasing spree, but instead Tom just wraps a hand around him and slides his mouth down over his cock.

"Oh, god." Barclay groans and rests one hand over the back of Tom's neck. The other clenches against the pillowcase.

Tom pulls back off and grins up at Barclay.

"This part's well hunky too," he says before going back down.

He's teasing. He must be. He's just not giving Barclay quite enough, and he must know it... he's got a cock of it own; he must know. Little kitten-licks and tracing every vein with his tongue and soft suckles of wet lips. He isn't even trying to make Barclay come yet.

That doesn't mean it doesn't pull the coil of tension in Barclay's stomach tighter and tighter, of course. It just means it's a very, very slow pull that seems to have no end in sight.

"Enjoying yourself?" Barclay asks, fingers scratching over Tom's skin where his hand rests at the back of his neck. He's not quite so strung up yet that he wants Tom to stop teasing, but he's got to put his frustration somewhere.

Tom's mouth vibrates as he hums _mm-hmm_ around the head of Barclay's cock.

"Fuck," Barclay breathes out, a jolt going through his body at the unexpected vibrations. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Well, I didn't accidentally fall on your dick," Tom pulls off to say.

Barclay nudges Tom's ribs with his knee. "Wanker."

Tom wraps his hand around Barclay's cock. "Well, if you'd rather..."

"No, no, no!" Barclay guides Tom's head back down even as Tom laughs. "You're a bloody awful tease."

The cheshire cat grin on Tom's face is really all the assurance Barclay needs that Tom is well aware of that. Proud of it too, probably. If Barclay weren't currently the one shivering out of his skin at the hand, or mouth, as it were, of him, he'd probably appreciate the restraint on Tom's part a bit more. Maybe. Probably not.

"I could stop teasing if you want," Tom says, casual as anything. "If you open up those hunky thighs for me."

"That doesn't sound complimentary," Barclay mumbles. But he does as he's told.

"Trust me," Tom says, passing his hands along Barclay's thighs, eyes dark and focused on him. "It's a compliment."

Tom's hands are soft as they run along the insides of Barclay's thighs, even though really Tom doesn't have soft hands. He has calluses from playing guitar without a pick, scars from scraping up his palms on the football pitch for years at a time. They're good hands. Reliable hands.

"Gonna open you up, yeah?" Tom says, one hand staying put on Barclay's thigh, while the other goes to the pocket of his own joggers, fishing out a sachet of lube.

Barclay nods, breath caught in his chest.

It's not like he hadn't done things, a lot of things, before or after or 'in between' Tom, as he thinks of the gap year that they spent mostly apart. But Tom's always taken care of him differently. He just... takes care.

He's not sure how much of this Tom has done outside of his experience with Barclay, but even the very first time they did... this, Tom didn't seem nervous. Excited, sure. A bit frantic even, maybe. But his hands are always sure and warm and steady.

The lube's not even cold when Tom touches his slick fingers to Barclay's hole this time, pressed up against Tom's thigh as it had been.

"You really are gorgeous," Tom says softly as just the tip of one finger starts to work its slow way inside. "I'm not just taking the piss."

Barclay gasps, unsure if it's the words or the feeling of Tom's finger pushing inside that causes it.

"You're so solid," Tom goes on, unperturbed. "Lean."

Barclay struggles to find an answer while Tom's knuckle breaches him, just enough to be the first small stretch. He settles for reaching out and holding onto Tom's waist, tight, his hands almost able to meet in the middle because Tom's so small.

"Are you too wound up, love?" Tom asks, his second hand rubbing slowly back and forth over Barclay's belly, while his other hand stills. "You need to relax a bit."

That's a herculean task, with Tom curling a finger inside him, getting him used to the feeling again.

"Deep breaths," Tom says, peeling one of Barclay's hands off his own waist so he can raise it up to his mouth and give the back of it a kiss, like Barclay's some sort of swooning damsel. It makes him grin at least.

He might be swooning. Just a bit.

"I'm not a damsel," he says though. Just so they're both sure.

"If you say so," Tom says with his own grin. He sets Barclay's hand down though, winding their fingers together and squeezing their hands as hs pushes into Barclay with a second finger.

Barclay has to close his eyes again, bite his lip. The angle of Tom's fingers changes, and the angle of the mattress dips, and then Tom's soft mouth is pressing little kisses up against the corner of Barclay's.

"You're doing so well," he whispers, moving his two fingers back and forth a bit, the slide of them becoming easier and easier with it. "Think you can manage a kiss?"

Barclay huffs and thinks about telling Tom he's not _that_ overwhelmed, but instead decides to just connect their lips and pull Tom's tongue into his mouth. That'll stop him from talking back at least.

It's a sloppy kiss. Between them, Tom spreads open his fingers and starts to stretch Barclay open in earnest. He's still wearing jeans, and they're rough against the overheated skin on Barclay's thighs.

Tom works a third finger in, his hips pressing into Barclay more and more insistently. Barclay smiles into their kiss and pushes one hand between their bodies, fumbling open the buttons are Tom's fly. Seems he's not the only one amped up.

Tom lets him unbutton his fly and start to palm through his pants, but he doesn't pause in his careful prep.

Eventually the heat in Barclay's belly and the heat beneath his palm and the easy slide of Tom's fingers start to make Barclay jittery again and he pulls back from where they'd been lazily mouthing at each other.

"'m ready, Tom, come on."

Tom blinks so slowly he looks half-asleep, half-enchanted, half-dazed. There's a pink flush high on his cheekbones and his lips are red, swollen. He's gorgeous.

"You sure?" he asks, fingers still screwing into Barclay.

"Yes. Please," Barclay says, pushing at Tom's belly a bit to get him to take the hint. Tom swallows heavily and leans back, carefully pulling out his fingers.

"Okay," he says. "Will you... is it alright if you... roll over?"

Barclay nods, but reaches out. "I wanna see _you_ first. You're my hunk of the... whatever it is. I can't think. Just wanna see your cock."

Tom huffs a little laugh but gets up on his knees and shimmies his jeans down his hips with a silly little wiggle. He's got these tiny, tigh black boxer briefs on underneath.

"Gonna make me get up and give you a show, too?"

"No," Barclay says. "Just get your pants off and show me what you can do."

"I can do that," Tom says and pushes his jeans and underwear down his thighs. He wobbles a bit when he maneouvres around to get them off fully, Barclay spreading his legs more to give Tom more room, but then he turns back to smile at him, cock proud and heavy between his legs.

Barclay shivers again, grunts, wants. Tom doesn't move close enough for him to touch, though, instead just smearing the lube over the length of himself and pumping slowly as he stares at Barclay, waiting.

"Well?" Tom asks, and Barclay suddenly remembers that it's his turn to move, to roll over. Instead he sits up and kisses Tom again, making a grab at his cock and running his hand along the full length. He's happy to do what Tom asks, but he wants this too, first.

Tom nuzzles against Barclay's temple. "Always love when you touch me, love."

"Want me to touch you some more?" Barclay asks, pecking Tom's lips quickly. They're right there. It's a terribly hard thing to resist.

"I'd quite like to fuck you, if that's alright," Tom says.

Barclay nods and turns around, rests his head down on his forearms. He can't see Tom like this, but he doesn't need to look.

The drippy head of his hard cock snubs up against his belly and he shivers.

Tom runs his hands up his legs and over his bum, further up his back, palms and fingers digging into the muscle.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he says. "You get all my votes."

Barclay laughs into his arms. "If this is what it takes..."

"Not for anyone else's votes," Tom murmurs, hands kneading at Barclay's arse. Barclay's not sure he was meant to hear that, so he refrains from commenting on it. When Tom pulls the cheeks of his bum apart and presses a kiss between them it doesn't seem that important anymore anyway.

Barclay groans at that, easy for it like he always is, and rides back against Tom's face. He almost sobs when Tom pulls away again, laughing under his breath.

"Next time, alright?" Tom says and then the mattress dips when he shifts his weight and shuffles forward. His thighs press up against Barclay's and Tom's cock presses up against Barclay's arse.

Barclay scrabbles against the sheets for something to hold onto while Tom turns his world inside out, pushing into him with clear, careful purpose. With this, at least, Tom's never a tease. He's slow and gentle and while one hand takes his weight, the other one passes along Barclay's back, rubbing and soothing and riling him up all at once.

"Good?" Tom asks. It's practice, probably, that makes Barclay hear the tightness of arousal in it. He doesn't remember Tom sounding like this when they'd first done this.

Barclay nods and turns his head, sucking in air.  
[  
"Gonna move then," Tom says, pulling his hips back and pushing forward again before Barclay can nod again. Tom's cock is bigger than his fingers inside him, but he feels better too.

Tom can't stop talking during sex. Every thought he has spills from his mouth in a torrent of sweet filth and sometimes it makes Barclay laugh, sometimes it makes his ears burn. Sometimes, like today, it just makes his breath stutter.

It's a litany of praise that falls from Tom's lips, nothing as flippant as his comments about hunk of the year, and he leans forward over Barclay's body, forehead against the back of Barclay's shoulders, smudging the words into the skin there.

He just _fits_ there, and Barclay reaches blindly back with one arm to touch Tom wherever he can reach -- a warm patch of skin that might be thigh or hip or rib. Tom rubs his cheek against the flat of Barclay's scapula, and his scruff scrapes against his skin like warmth.

"'m close," Tom mumbles, finds one of Barclay's hands with his own and laces their fingers together, where it lays next to Barclay's face.

Barclay kisses Tom's fingers. "Gimme a hand?"

Never one to miss out on a pun, Tom snorts a giggle into Barclay's shoulder. Barclay can feel his hair rub against his skin as well and thinks he's shaking his head, probably. But he wiggles an arm underneath Barclay's body and pulls him snug against his own, so when they shuffl up onto their knees they don't have to separate.

Teeth and wet lips nip at the back of Barclay's shoulder as Tom wraps a hand around his prick. He matches the rhythm just so that Barclay never has a moment of respite from sensation. He doesn't know whether to push back onto Tom's cock or forward into his hand and eventually just gives up trying, bracing his weight on his arms and letting Tom wring moans and 'fuck's and 'yes'es from him.  
Tom comes before he does, a wet surge and a shiver and a slew of cursing that Barclay will laugh at later. But for now there's a whine in his throat when Tom's rhythm falters just a bit before it picks up with renewed vigour, Tom's mouth teasing at the damp skin below his ear.

He pulls out and then there are fingers sliding into where Barclay's loose and open and messy with come. Three at once, it feels like, and another playing at the rim like Tom's considering.

"Yeah," Barclay says even though Tom's not asked him anything. He wants the stretch from it, wants the feeling of being filled back and Tom gets it, seems like, because then he pushes another finger into Barclay. He can't hold his head up.

"It's okay," Tom whispers. "I've got you."

And he does, doesn't he? He's always got Barclay. Always touches him just right, flicks his wrist and teases his tongue along his fingers and pushes Barclay into sensory overload. Barclay's voice breaks as he comes, and through the wall someone -- sounds like Mikey -- punches the wall and yells, "Don't yodel about it, Barcs, jesus!"

Tom shakes in breathless laughter against his back, fingers still snug inside him. Barclay's still trying to get his breath and his wits back, wonders if the mood's completely broken now and then Tom pulls out his fingers, leans up to kiss the back of Barclay's shoulder.

"You can yodel if you want," he says, softly.

"Yo-del-ay-fuck-you. It was your fault."

Tom kisses in a gentle line from one shoulder to the other and then down Barclay's spine. He only stops when Barclay whimpers again, thighs tightening together because he's too sensitive to even think about Tom's tongue right now.

Tom sighs and straightens out beside him.

"But you liked it."

Barclay collapses onto the bed, right into his own wet spot. He's too boneless and satisfied to care. "I loved it. Best time I've ever had trying to get some votes."

"That'd be a whole other show," Tom grins.

Barclay laughs and lifts his arm with all of the energy that he has left. Tom cuddles up under it, the top of his head tucked under Barclay's chin.

Just before his eyes drift shut, Barclay kisses the top of Tom's head. Tom makes a displeased little noise and juts his chin against Barclay's clavicle, always sensitive about seeming too little when he's the small spoon like this. But then he just cuddles in closer, his skinny legs folding around Barclay's thick thighs.

Really, Barclay thinks, who needs to be a hunk when he could just be _Tom_ 's for a year?


End file.
